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Bill Linnane: I regret being too vain to wear a face mask

Bill Linnane


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Bill Linnane

Bill Linnane

Bill Linnane

I have fond memories of a time when I enjoyed clothes shopping. I was living in Dublin about five minutes when I realised that my boot-cut jeans and New Rock boots were the modern-day equivalent of a potato sack smeared in animal faeces, so I set about re-branding myself as some sort of semi-stylish flâneur.

This was the time pre-children, halcyon days when an FCUK T-shirt was deemed both stylish and risqué, when I was footloose and fancy free and able to spend money on myself without opening a yawning chasm of guilt and self-loathing beneath my acupuncture-brand trainers. Although frankly, looking back on the sort of outlandish garbage I wore, falling into a ravine was really the most fitting punishment.

Still, I yearn for a time when I could indulge in that level of selfish narcissism, but all things must pass, and soon my bird of paradise-style Topman plumage and fiscal promiscuity landed me a life partner, and my time for caring about how I looked was at an end.